They All Lived Story 3b: Unified Front
by LadyWordsmith
Summary: Edward Elric arrives on the Amestris/Drachma border to deal with a border dispute. Neither General Olivia Armstrong, nor her men, are pleased with his being given command. Can Ed earn the trust of the men he will need to lead and avoid a war?


Location: Fort Briggs, Amestris Northern Border

Date: September 20th, 1926

Edward tried to feel confident as he, with Alphonse and the other command staff who had come with him, approached the entrance to Briggs, the rest of the soldiers and supplies that had come with them in a column behind that led all the way back to the train station. It was cold, but he could handle that. In fact, he rather liked it, because it gave him an excuse to keep the long black officer's coat on; and he much preferred it to the rest of the military uniform. He was sure he 'looked' confident enough, and he would need it.

He could tell from the expression on General Olivia Armstrong's face, that she was not pleased to see them; not at all. The famous 'ice queen' of Fort Briggs, Alex Armstrong's older sister. Opinionated and as conversational as a rabid porcupine, but well respected by her subordinates. She was a force to be reckoned with, and Ed was expecting a confrontation. Mustang had warned him; Armstrong had warned him; Olivia had received the same instructions Ed had about command on the Northern front for this entire scenario, and Olivia would hate it; and not without good reasons.

Olivia Armstrong was a stunning woman, of that there was no doubt, but the expression on her face severely cut into that image. Stern, hard, and seething. Ed was encroaching on 'her' Fort, with direct orders to do so. What was worse really, was that he was technically her superior. This was not going to be pleasant.

He stopped at an appropriate distance, where they could speak normally, but he wasn't up in her face -which was good since she was a good bit taller than him! The rest of his staff stopped behind him. Those of appropriate rank saluted. Behind Olivia Armstrong, the appropriate salutes were given; even though Ed could tell from subtle changes in body positioning, that they didn't like doing it. None would out and

out do anything that might call attention to themselves in this case, but they didn't like it. Ed didn't blame them.

Neither Ed, nor Olivia, saluted. Time to get this over with. "General Armstrong," Ed spoke clearly, formally; keep it professional; that was the plan, at least in public. "We have been sent to support the Northern branch of the Amestris army with defense of the Amestris-Drachma border."

"Why don't you just say it plain," Olivia scowled. "You're here to take control of Fort Briggs."

From the lack of surprise on the faces of the soldiers behind her, Ed suspected the soldiers here already knew how their commanding officer felt about this, and possibly agreed. Just what they needed; in-fighting. No, that wasn't going to happen. Ed couldn't let it.

"I have been ordered to take temporary command of operations here, yes," Ed nodded; he refused to let himself take offense at her statements, though it meant clamping down hard on his temper. "With the purpose of freeing up Northern command and soldiers to deal more effectively with the rest of the Border, with which they are more

familiar and better equipped for those missions. We have brought direct support for them as well."

"Since we are better equipped and more familiar with them, what makes your presence necessary?" Olivia replied, condescension clear. She obviously felt no fear of reprimand; and not out of just ego; she was just that plain to speak her mind. Ed respected that; it was a trait that was more like him.

"Central ordered for more detailed investigation into the likely involvement of alchemists from Drachma being involved in the current hostilities, as well as a show of quiet reinforcement to deter all out warfare." But preparation for the war they all knew was probably coming anyway.

"So instead of attack dogs, they send me pups," Olivia actually spat the last word. "To nip at my heels and mess in my halls."

Short joke and military dog crack in one; nice. No, he was not going to teach her a lesson; he wasn't, really. Much as he would have liked to.

"Easy brother," Al spoke quietly from just behind him, so softly no one else would have heard and, Ed suspected, would have even seen his mouth move.

Ed gave him a tiny flick of his fingers that signaled an 'I'm okay for the moment' and continued to face the General in front of him. "With luck and cooperation," he stressed the last word. "I'm sure we all hope we won't be here long."

When he was clearly not intimidated, nor did she get a rise out of Ed -he was sure she had been trying to- Olivia gave a soft snort, not audible, but visible from the puff of air that rose from her nose in the cold. "Indeed." With that, she turned and headed inside. The ranks behind her split and followed with impressive precision.

"Not a particularly warm reception," one of the other Generals – a Brigadier Ed thought if he recognized the voice - commented.

Ed shrugged and started walking forward. "What were you expecting out of Briggs?"

As soon as Ed heard from his staff that everyone was bunked down - Briggs was never really full, though now it was a wee bit crowded until the regulars were deployed appropriately - he headed for Olivia Armstrong's office for the real confrontation. He left the coat on; his rank didn't need to be visible around here; he doubted there was a body in the place who didn't know who he was and that he was here to take charge.

Olivia had been expecting him. She sat behind her desk, an imposing massive piece of wooden furniture, and glared at him openly. "Invading my inner sanctum already, General Elric?"

"I knocked," Ed replied, keeping his remark pegged at flippant. He already didn't like her; but he had to work with her. "Look, I know you don't want us here and, frankly, we'd just as soon go home and say this isn't necessary."

"But we need to work together for the good of Amestris?" Olivia smirked. "Please don't tell me you expect me to believe that you believe those old lines. You're hardly one to shy away from a fight."

"Doesn't mean I want to start one either," Ed countered. "What I was going to say, is we need to put up with each other and get Drachma dealt with as fast as possible to keep this from becoming a long term situation. I'd really rather not be here at all."

"Oh really?" Olivia continued scowling. "Then why take the command in the first place? You've got rank enough to weasel out of pretty much anything you don't want to do."

Ed frowned. "You think rank has anything to do with this?"

"Doesn't it though?" Olivia didn't lean forward; she didn't need to. She was very good at pressing with her eyes. "I'm perfectly capable of handling this little fiasco, and 'President' Mustang knows that full well, or should by now. That little snot climbed his way to the top on the backs of those who died in the Ishbal Rebellion and his own conniving, the rest of us be hanged as far as where we stood. He had his own aspirations, and you're just like him."

"Elaborate." He'd let her finish, but he really didn't like where this was going.

"Gladly. Why else would you have taken that ridiculous joke of a promotion, you and your brother both, when you got back? Why else would Mustang have offered it? You're no General; you're a PR boost and a pretty face to wave at the masses as a symbol of 'caring government.' You're still nothing more than a dog on a leash, and that rope leads directly into the hands of Roy Mustang. I don't take orders from someone who believes his own press."

Ed seethed, and not because of the insult of being tied to Mustang; he could deal with that. It was the rest of it. He knew how some people saw his taking that position, and he understood; because he had felt the same about Mustang for a long time. Now, it felt odd, but he felt like he was defending them both. "Why would I?" Ed shrugged. "I spent nine years living by my own wits and abilities; without alchemy to do a damned thing for me. I know exactly who I am, and what I am capable of, better than anybody else with the exceptions of my brother, my wife, and President Mustang." Odd

as it was admitting that last part. "Why do you really think I'm here, General?" he scowled.

"For your own purposes I'm sure," Olivia replied coolly, those steel-cold eyes bore into him. They didn't bother Ed.

"Oh yeah," Ed smirked and shrugged. "But what do you think they are? Power? Promotion? Prestige?"

"Take your pick," Olivia shrugged. "Any or all of the above."

"As if I don't have enough influence, money, and fame now to make anyone jealous," Ed let his contempt for the idea drip from his words. "Tell me, if you can, exactly what about me you've heard when it comes to my service in the military."

"You're a loose canon. You often disobeyed and ignored direct orders, were investigated for possible treason to the State, and worked directly under Mustang for years."

"And my working relationship with him?"

Olivia grimaced. "Rocky, at best. Not a stellar military record, General Elric," she almost spat the title, but not quite, "Mustang knows how to play the game though; and that's the only explanation I have for that ridiculous promotion."

Ed smirked then and shrugged his shoulders, hands out, palms up. "So why would a loose canon with a history of disobeying our 'illustrious' president trot up here like a good little lap dog? I'm not exactly someone you call to heel and expect to get results."

"That was rather my point." Olivia was clearly annoyed now, but that worked to Ed's advantage he thought.

"You're right," he met her gaze evenly, still smiling. "I am here for my own reasons. I'm not here because I was ordered to be here, I'm here because I was 'asked'; and because I care very deeply for what happens to the people of this country, all of them. I've seen what advanced warfare can do to people over time, and what comes of it; in two worlds. I won't let that happen again, where-ever I am. Amestris is my home, and these people need me to defend them. Call it ego if you want, call it pride, I don't care. I know what I can do; Mustang knows what I can do, and for once, we agree on what needs to be done and how. You and I both have our orders, General Armstrong, but we both choose whether or not we follow them. Are you 'willing' to disobey those orders because you 'don't like' me?" He didn't see the need to yell; cold logic and a smirk really was an effective way of pissing people off and making them listen; a lesson he'd have to thank Mustang for sometime...maybe. "You're welcome to file a formal complaint with Command."

Olivia obviously hated being challenged as much as Ed did. Her glare had long gone past icy to steel. "It would be easier to put up with you," she admitted begrudgingly.

"Sure," Ed nodded, smirking smugly. "After all, the faster you prove I'm unnecessary, the faster I'm out of your lovely hair right?"

The hint of a possible compliment seemed to piss her off more. Ice queen indeed! "You're as pleasant as an icicle in the eye, Elric. You do your job, I'll do mine, and we'll get this over with. But if anything happens to my Fort, you're dead."

Ed laughed. "I can live with that."

"For the record," Olivia continued. "I don't believe a bit of this self-less patriotism act. Whatever you may claim, you're in it for what you'll get out of all this."

Ed turned to go, but paused, and nodded over his shoulder. "While both are not mutually exclusive, you're right. There is something I'm getting out of this."

"Oh, and what would that be?"

Ed shrugged and kept walking. "A safe place for my kid to be born and grow up in."

Silence followed him out the door.

September 20th-October 5th, 1926

The first couple of weeks at Briggs were tense but, thankfully, relatively uneventful. Even more so than down in Central however, the folks of the Northern Command seemed to think even less of Edward's rocket promotion straight to the top. Not that Ed had expected them to. He was still learning the ropes of command, and there was a lot that he hadn't been through, despite the fact he had a lot of experiences they didn't.

At least at Central, they had known who he was; a lot of the soldiers who were still there remembered him, even if they hadn't known him well, and what he had done for the military and the State. Briggs was not so forgiving. Olivia Armstrong's opinion was widely held. Ed was going to have to set about proving himself to the men and women under him, and Ed wasn't entirely sure how he was going to do that. Alphonse was in a similar position, but given how well Al played under officer to the other Generals, and how friendly and easy going he was in comparison, he was having an easier time of it.

Ed was getting tired of playing the target but he'd expected to. He didn't much like being set up as the ranking officer in this either, but Mustang had made his decision, and Ed honestly couldn't fault him for it given the details of his orders. Diplomacy was failing, and Mustang needed a trained attack dog who _didn't_ attack blindly, and had no personal ambitions that might get in the way of doing his job to the State. Ed's loyalties required him to do everything in his power to protect Amestris' Northern border.

Ed could only do so much to ingratiate himself with the ranks of the military and, honestly, he wasn't inclined to try. He was himself, and they could learn to deal with Edward Elric, or not. He wasn't a pompous ass, and he wasn't an egotistical ladder climber – no matter what the rumors said – and they would learn that sooner or later. He didn't have time to mess with politics.

Still, he got tired of sitting at all of his meals alone, or with Al, or surrounded by officers – the third being the most common given how hectic everything was. They were expecting Drachman troops any day. Forget the fact there weren't supposed to be open hostilities going on. As Ed had already learned, the war had already started, but no one in the capitals of either country was calling it that.

There were whispers and glares when people thought Ed wasn't watching. Of course, Ed was far too aware of his surroundings to miss them, but he didn't let on. It grated on his nerves, but he couldn't afford to slip, to lose his temper; he was himself, and yet not. Military professionalism was something he lacked that the other commanding officers had. It was something he would have to affect.

By the end of that first two weeks, Alphonse seemed right at home among the other officers, even some of the regular soldiers. Off-duty, he made friends, he soothed ruffled feathers, and he told stories over games of cards that had folks howling about some of their adventures on the other side of the gate, or even when they were young. The stories were often a little vague on where they happened, but they liked Al.

Ed was getting irritable and edgy. He ached for action, for something more useful to do than organize and prepare. He could almost feel the tension in the air; the border ready to explode, and yet he could make no move until it was time.

That time and Ed's chance to prove himself came, ironically, in the same situation.

This far north, the literal border was not nearly as clearly drawn as the line on the map. One of the first things Ed and his staff had been ordered to do by Mustang was deploy troops forward, to a point about a half day's march from Briggs itself. Within a week, there had been a report of skirmishes, and reinforcements had been sent to hold that position, to keep the fighting off of Amestris' literal doorstep.

Now, Ed had the strong feeling he should see things for himself. Mustang had taught him to trust his hunches when he was younger, and while he had wanted to ignore the man at the time, his instincts hadn't failed him in years.

"I'll be going with the Fifteenth," he announced over the strategy table in Briggs' planning center that morning. "I want to assess the situation personally and make sure we're properly shoring up the front." As he had expected, there were immediate objections. Half a dozen voices asking why him, all but accusing him of hunting for a chance to show off. "Because, unlike the rest of you, I can protect them from dangers other than just bullets," he snapped. "If the situation is already hot combat, than I can give the order to effectively use alchemy in defense, as well as carry it out. We need a strategic head out there, not one of the inexperienced kids that were stationed up here to begin with." All right, so those 'kids' weren't any younger than he was, but he had a lot of experience they didn't when it came to combative alchemy. "The last thing we need is to escalate this incident unnecessarily. You don't have to like it. If I screw things up, you can tell President Mustang it's all my fault. I'd expect you to," he added, meeting each of their eyes directly. Only Alphonse hadn't voiced any objection, even though he didn't look as thought he approved either. Though Ed suspected Al had different reasons for his own reservations on the matter.

It was settled quickly. No one really wanted to challenge Ed's authority – his temper being legendary if nothing else. Well, they would see soon enough what he had learned living on the other side of the gate. Ed didn't need alchemy to be effective; but it was a trump card he didn't mind pulling out now that he had it.

October 6th, 1927

"You sure this is a good idea?" Alphonse asked him the next morning as Ed put on his uniform and got ready to go. They'd be marching, the terrain was inhospitable to vehicles, and it would be nearly as slow as marching, aside from being more noticeable movement, so Ed was prepared to play infantry with the rest of the men. No reason why he shouldn't after all. He packed a rucksack with necessary supplies, then checked his pistol and holstered it. Ed had become proficient with firearms living in Europe – an unpleasant necessity without alchemy – and had no trouble qualifying for proficiency when he'd accepted the promotion and returned to the military.

He just hoped he didn't have to use it.

"Walking into a combat zone is never a _good_ idea, Al," Ed replied. "But I want to see for myself what's going on, and what's needed out there. Whatever the diplomats are saying, we're already at war; calling it a border dispute is just a pretty way of calming the populace and minimizing panic."

Al nodded and sighed. "Be careful, Ed."

"Don't I always?"

"No, not really," Al chuckled and shook his head. "But you're not likely to get the chance to end this in one shot, so don't go playing hero. I know you're not out for glory," he held up a hand when Ed glared at him. "If anyone knows better it's me. But I know you might do something you shouldn't in protecting others."

Ed sighed, the tension in his back releasing. "I'm not risking myself for soldiers, Al. This is their duty, and they chose it; they know the risks. But I need to do my job to do our best by them as well. Besides," he added as he headed for the door. "I report directly to Mustang, and there are things he wants to know that our junior officers on the field aren't likely to think to report. See you in a few days."

He didn't give Al time to respond, waving to him as he left his quarters and headed out to join the soldiers that he was following out to the lines.

The half-days walk was uneventful, if tense. A brisk pace that Ed found almost relaxing, given his usual physical conditioning. The highest ranking men among them were the Colonel in charge, and his two Lieutenant Colonels. While the Colonel had given him sideways glances at first, Ed had made it clear he had no intention of taking direct command of the troops. "You're their commanding officer," he had pointed out to the man quietly.

Once they realized he meant it, and he wasn't going to complain about the walk, or gripe or glare or try and make them march like they were in a parade, the soldiers relaxed. There wasn't a lot of talking, but there were quiet conversations, and soldiers sharing water. When they stopped for lunch, Ed offered up a little alchemy so they could have hot food without the dead give-away of wood smoke. In the chill landscape of the North, it was appreciated.

"Forgive me, Sir," the Colonel, whose name was Hal Brewster Ed discovered, said after a couple of hours. "But you seem surprisingly comfortable with this. I was informed you had never commanded combat or served as a soldier."

"You were informed correctly," Ed replied calmly. He shrugged as he clambered up an outcropping; the terrain was becoming increasingly less cooperative. "There are more ways to learn about combat first hand than on a military battlefield, Colonel," he explained. It was an opportunity he didn't want to miss. "I've been in a combat zone; I've fought and killed first hand, and I've had to shoot and been shot at. Violence and I are old compatriots, but we're not friends. Did they ever tell you what my alchemic specialty is?"

"Besides metals?" the Colonel looked momentarily perplexed, scrambling to keep up with Ed over the rocks. He was taller and bulkier than Ed, and it made for slower going. "They say you challenged President Mustang himself to an alchemy battle for an assessment that ended in a tie, but only because Fuhrer Bradley called it," Brewster continued, a little less hesitant when Ed seemed willing to talk. "They say you battled most of the Homunculi yourself, and that it was you who dealt the final blows that chased the invaders back to the other world."

"Quite a lot to swallow, isn't it?" Ed grinned as he paused on top of a particularly large rocky incline and offered Brewster a hand up. Without thinking, the man took it.

Catching his own breath, Brewster nodded. "It's all pretty incredible," he admitted. "But no one seems to dispute the stories; not even the higher-ups who don't seem to like you…umm…if you don't mind my saying, General, Sir." He looked nervous, like he was afraid he'd been too open.

Ed snorted a laugh. "They may trump them up, but all the bare facts are true," he said, sliding down the other side of the embankment. Behind them, the rest of the men came pouring over in close ranks. They couldn't afford to be caught in the open. Those behind had weapons at the ready in case of surprise attack, to protect those climbing. Ed has his alchemy, or he would have drawn his weapon as well. "Relax, Colonel. Rank means little in practicality on the battlefield; except to paint me the biggest target. It's this," he tapped the pocket into which his watch-chain disappeared, "that should worry the enemy, and that makes me useful to the State on this mission."

"So, you're not out here to observe as a General then?" Brewster asked, his voice getting softer.

Ed shook his head. He was coming to like this Colonel; he was good at reading people, and Brewster was good with his men, and honest. They were about the same age, Ed thought. Besides, his reasons for coming out were hardly secret; not really. "In part yes," he replied. "But really, I'm up here today in my primary capacity, as a State Alchemist; different set of skills."

To his credit, while Brewster certainly couldn't know what all that difference entailed, he nodded. "I appreciate knowing that, Sir," he replied. "I wanted to thank you again for lunch as well," he added. "The men appreciated it."

Ed grinned. "No man likes to work hard on an empty stomach, or eat cold something that tastes better hot. Besides," he added. "I'm an absolute grouch when I'm hungry."

Brewster blinked a moment; then chuckled. "I'm sure they'll really appreciate it more knowing that."

Ed and Brewster chatted easily until they finally grew close to the front lines. When they started to hear firing, they motioned the soldiers to stop, and moved forward to scout ahead. Ed dropped his pack, insisting on going.

"Is that wise?" Brewster asked; not contradicting him of course, but asking.

"Probably not," Ed replied without stopping. "You coming?"

They snuck up to the bend in the trail they were winding through, and peeked out. About two hundred yards beyond was the back end of the Amestrian line, already hazy from the use of gunpowder. Occasional flashes from beyond showed the general location of the line on the other side; but for now, the line held.

"Time to move in," Colonel Brewster commented quietly, mostly to himself.

Ed nodded. "If we can shore them up now, the Drachmans should at least give us a reprieve. They don't know we're here." He had an idea, looking at the terrain. "Actually, if we don't pull closer until we get about there," he gestured off to the right, "We can form up on the flank; it won't be a full maneuver, but they'll have to regroup and reconsider their strategy."

Brewster nodded. "I don't suppose you can do anything that would just end this?" he asked, sounding hopeful.

Ed shook his head. "My orders, like all the alchemists involved in this, are defensive alchemy only. I can protect us, and I can defend against incoming attacks, but pulling offensive tactics with alchemy without a full declaration of war would land this entire mess on my head, and Mustang's."

The Colonel looked resigned, but he nodded. "After Ishbal, and then the Coup, I guess I understand why; minimal casualties, fewer memories of the previous regime. All right then, we'll take the offensive, you take the defense?"

Ed nodded, grinning, though it was with a grim edge to it. "That's the plan. I'll let the entrenched forces know we're here; you get into position."

The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. The soldiers in place were so glad to hear about reinforcements, they didn't care that it was General Elric there giving them the news; they would have welcomed a giant frog in uniform at that point!

Brewster's men moved into position with stunning efficiency while Ed was apprised of the situation by the Colonel in charge of the current defenses, and then took a look for himself; carefully of course. Not that there was much to see besides flashes and haze, even at closer range, but the sound brought the reality of it home, and the smells; gunpowder, sweat, and blood; the sounds of fired volleys from both sides, and the cries of the wounded, or dying.

He was with Brewster's men when they began firing. He stayed low as the Drachmans seemed to pause, and then within minutes, there was firing coming in their direction as well. They weren't entrenched, like the soldiers in front of the Drachmans, and he suspected that meant they felt Brewster's command were easier targets.

The Drachmans weren't wrong; but the Amestrians were fresh, and their aim was good. Ed had erected a firm barrier for them to hide behind, several actually, that allowed the ranks better breaks, and a way to avoid hitting each other during volleys.

It went on for nearly an hour; volley after volley, back and forth, and Ed was beginning to wonder if it would just stale-mate at dark, as it seemed to do most evenings according to the reports, and what he had been told. But that wasn't going to allow them time to take the wounded out of the combat zone and back to the safety of Briggs, and it was a stalemate that would end in far more casualties than Ed liked.

He was considering his options when a cry went up from the front of the line. "What's going on?" he moved forward, grabbing binoculars off his hip and looking out onto the battlefield.

"The Drachmans are charging!" Colonel Brewster informed him, as Ed's focus found them, moving quickly, still firing. He ducked as a shot came his way.

"They're charging the fortifications," Ed cursed; they were making a run right for the trenches. If this turned into an in-trench fight, it was going to be far bloodier than any 'skirmish.' Damn the bureaucrats; this was war plain and simple. If Drachma wanted a peaceful resolution, they hadn't informed their military! "Flank them! Flank them now!" the snap decision came out of his mouth; but he didn't try and rescind the order. They had just been presented with the wide open opportunity they needed to put off the Drachmans.

"Yes, Sir!" Brewster's tone indicated a salute he didn't actually do – no one saluted on the battlefield, it was a good way to get your commanding officers shot! –then he was gone, passing the orders down the line.

In a minute, the area was more than just a war zone, it was pitched battle such as Ed had never before witnessed in person; not even being chased and shot at by Nazi's and their sympathizers, and plenty of other men who had reason to hate him. Even multi-person – and airplane – shoot outs had nothing on the immediacy of this; and battling homunculi did not have the intensity of so many men fighting at once. It was a horrible and beautiful thing to see strategy come together, and work, but the cacophony of noise that reached his ears was a uniquely terrifying experience.

Not that Ed hesitated. He had never been one to stand behind and let other's die; he didn't now either; charging forward without having to think about it, his hands went together, and then hit the ground as he dropped, sending a rippling wave of earth, wave after wave, under the feet of the charging Drachman soldiers, knocking them off kilter and creating chaos.

There were plenty of ways to be effective in battle with alchemy; killing was only the simplest and most unrefined.

It wasn't enough to end the battle of course; Ed hadn't expected it to be. The fight changed angles, and the Drachmans turned to deal more directly with their attackers. Ed found himself pinned behind one of the burms of earth he had created with his ripples, on the ground to avoid getting his head blown off. At another point, when things got close in, he used his automail arm to deflect the blow from one attacking soldier's bayonet – apparently the man was out of bullets.

It was ugly, and brutal, with bullets flying and men falling every which way.

One bullet clanged off his arm, then another pierced, finding a crack in the auto-mail through the fabric of his uniform; and his arm seized momentarily. Ed gave it a sharp shake, but the momentary distraction made him a target; a sharp sting that was swallowed by a spreading pain hit him along the left side, and he looked down to see blood soaking the side of his uniform. A winged shot, he guessed, but far closer than Ed liked, and it hurt like hell! Dropped to the ground again, he found himself sharing cover with a young Major, who looked absolutely stricken. Then Ed saw why, the man's face was pale, and he was sweating; his shoulder was bleeding worse than Ed's side with a definite shot.

The Drachmans weren't retreating, but it was time to end this. Ed tried to move his auto-mail arm, but it was still seized up. Grimacing, Ed pulled his back-up weapon, his pistol, and shoved himself up high enough to see over the burm; he started shooting. Picking off men wasn't honorable, but this wasn't about honor; this wasn't about right and wrong; it was a battlefield, and that meant it was about survival. Ed told himself that over and over again as he aimed and fired, aimed and fired, only firing when he was sure his target was in Drachman uniform. There would be no friendly fire; he wasn't going to kill his own men!

When he ran out of ammunition, he reloaded again, and again, and again. He felt another hot winging, and pain as a bullet grazed his left arm as well. Others were doing the same, firing as he was, as both sides had backed off and were firing in fairly close quarters, but not foolish enough to expose themselves to the other side. Whoever ran out of ammunition first…lost.

It was time to cut and run. Ed couldn't have made the battlefield explode now if he wanted to; or any of his preferred attacks. The two groups were too close, and too intertwined. "All right," he turned to the Major laying beside him. "Let's get out of here." He stood then, at a crouch and grabbed the slightly younger man up and hoisted him. He was a pretty big guy, not unlike Breda, but Ed figured he could drag him the thirty yards back to the shelter of the dirt walls he had erected earlier.

"What are you doing?" the man asked, still sweating profusely, as Ed started moving him backwards by cover of dirt, making new hideouts as they went.

"Saving your ass!" Ed replied, shooting back at someone targeting them until the direct fire stopped; then continuing to crawl and scramble backwards. It was a long, agonizing retreat; given how often he had to stop to shoot at something, or take a panting break to keep from passing out. He was getting light headed, and coated in grime and sweat; thirst was keen, but water was with their packs, not on the battlefield. His vision blurred once or twice. He wasn't the only one retreating now. He hadn't heard the order, but obviously Brewster had given it. Time to re-entrench; time for another stale-mate, but at least the Drachmans weren't going to take that ground today!

As the sun sank into dusk, and then full night, the firing died down. Under cover of clouded night and mountain darkness, Ed could hear the Drachmans retreating, and the Amestrians doing the same.

When Ed dragged into camp carrying the Major, he was immediately relieved of the wounded man by two of Brewster's soldiers, and ushered to the fireside, where the unit doctor scowled and ordered Ed to remove his outer layers. It was difficult with his arm malfunctioning. Ed hoped that repairs wouldn't be difficult. He thought he might even be able to manage that himself, after a good rest. He felt like hell, and a little fevered.

Shot twice and still at a stale mate, yeah, this was a great way to begin his military career as a battlefield officer. Ed grimaced as the doctor poked and prodded at both wounds. He drained two canteens of water, but he still felt hot and light headed from blood loss. Still, he'd had worse injuries. "Winged with this one," he poked at Ed's side as he bound it tightly. "This one punched," he said tapping the top of Ed's shoulder lightly with one finger, it still hurt.

"Hell," Ed bit off a curse. Others had suffered worse, but the wound throbbed painfully. "Is it still in there?"

The doctor nodded. "I'm going to need to remove it." He picked up sterilized tweezers, and Ed braced himself.

"Here, General," a soldier from Brewster's unit, a Sergeant, materialized from the side, holding out a canteen. "You'll want this."

"I've had plenty of water, thanks," Ed shook his head, declining politely.

The Sergeant, and two of the men behind him, chuckled. "It's not water, Sir," he replied.

Ah. "That's another story then," Ed replied, reaching for the canteen with his injured arm while the doctor waited with an impatient look, but stoic silence. Ed was glad the canteen was open, he couldn't have managed it one handed. He didn't even bother to sniff, upending it and taking down a mouthful in one swallow; the harsh burning sensation of strong Northern whiskey coursed down his throat, leaving a trail until it left a glow in the pit of his stomach that spread out to his limbs. Almost immediately, given his weakened state, he began to feel the effects, and the pain radiating from his wounds, and his fatigue, began to numb. He didn't care about the mental effects right now; he knew it was the best painkiller he was going to be offered out here. He took another longer, slower drink, then handed the canteen back. "Thanks, Sergeant…"

"Lowery, Sir," the man smiled. "You're welcome, Sir."

Ed smiled back; then grimaced as the doctor took a hold of his injured shoulder. This was going to bloody well hurt, and he knew it. Still, he sat perfectly still, unflinching, while the doctor – with a lot of care actually – located and removed the bullet, then polticed and bandaged Ed's shoulder, binding it tightly. "Thanks, doc," he managed when it was over; he'd bit his tongue on the litany of curses that had run through his head as he had silently dealt with the pain.

"How's the pain?" the doctor asked as he cleaned up.

"Hurts like hell," Ed replied honestly. There was, he had to admit, no way he could realistically work on his own auto-mail with that injury. "I'm going to need someone with a steady hand and a few tools. My arm needs work if I'm going to use it properly." Civil words; he was too drained for much else; too numb from battle still to really feel his frustrations at how things had turned out. At least he now knew what they were facing!

"I'm a fair enough hand for that, if you'll allow it," Brewster said, coming up through the crowd and sitting down next to him in the next chair over. He gave Ed a look. "Forgive me for saying this, Sir, but you look like shit."

"I feel like it, so I guess that's fair," Ed smirked. He still hurt, a lot, but he wasn't going to let himself fall apart now; he'd stay conscious, he'd stay lucid, and he'd keep his calm. For once, no one was treating him like some pretty-boy-come-General without a lick of credibility.

The Sergeant ran for a tool set, and before long, Ed was instructing Hal Brewster on just how to remove the cover of his arm, and talked him carefully through pulling the bullet lodged inside of it out without ruining the machinery inside. As he worked, a lot of the soldiers moved away to a larger fire, where there was already a lot of drinking going on and chatter as they passed bottles, cigarettes, and stories around. Someone even had a harmonica out, and began to play something bright and cheerful, at odds with their current surroundings. Around them, the mountain darkness seemed to shrink the world.

"This is some really sophisticated machinery," Brewster commented as he carefully dislodged the offending ammunition. "You must have one hot designer."

"The best," Ed grinned broadly. "She's my wife." He took another swig from the canteen of whiskey; Lowery had insisted on leaving it there, assuring Ed that it wasn't the only thing worth drinking, even out here in the middle of a battlefield. Not that that surprised Ed in the least. Usually, he liked his wits about him; and he still rarely drank enough to let it effect his mind; but right now, it was better than dealing with the sharp pains of fresh wounds, and the feverish warmth he could feel in his head.

Brewster laughed. "Now that's convenient. Come to think of it, I think I heard about that at some point too. Ah there, got it," he pulled back, the bullet in hand. "Something you don't need your pretty lady finding as a welcome home surprise," he smirked.

"Winry'd kill me," Ed chuckled as Brewster reattached the cover to Ed's upper arm. When he was done, Ed flexed the arm, finding it back in working order. It was a relief; without it, he would have been effectively useless; with neither arm in good working order.

"Well these Drachmans sure tried tonight," Brewster sighed. "Do you mind?" He picked up the whiskey.

Ed shook his head. "Of course not, please." It wasn't that he didn't want to appear stingy, but he wasn't normally a heavy drinker, and he knew his own tolerances well enough to know better; he was already well on his way to drunk just dealing with the bullet in his arm, and he was tired enough that he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't going to pass out sometime soon in here as well.

"Thanks." Brewster took a long pull at the canteen himself. "Today actually wasn't a total loss," he said softly when he was done. "We lost less than a dozen men, though we have a lot of wounded. There's no way to really give up this position without letting Drachma right into Briggs though."

Ed nodded. It was a lousy situation, even though this was the best ground for holding – that didn't make it good ground! "We need a full regiment fresh in here, more really," he sighed. "If we're going to replace what's here and shore up the place more efficiently. I'll make sure, when we get back, to send at least one alchemist out here too. Those defensive tricks I was using are baby stuff."

"I wish we had more babies in the military then," Brewster snorted. "You're the reason we didn't have a slaughter out there today, Fullmetal."

The doctor, crossing between his tent and the tent on the other side that held the wounded, paused and snorted. "You'd better have a plan for holding out a few more days then, Officers, because you won't be in any condition to make the march back to Briggs for a few days. Those wounds aren't infected, but they're severe enough; and until that fever goes away, you won't be up to much of anything, especially not marching."

"I can handle it," Ed retorted, glowering. "I've had worse."

"Then you should know better," the doctor snapped. "Sir," he added, clearly as an after thought.

Ed sighed. Much as he hated to admit it, the man was right. He did know well enough that the trek that they had made this morning was not one he could do wounded. He wasn't thinking clearly; of course, he was fevered and half drunk, so he supposed that came with the territory. He was thinking all sorts of things, his mind as focused as it ever got when he was drunk, a strange keenness that he knew would pass if he drank more, leading eventually into unconsciousness. "Point made," he replied, disgruntled.

The doctor grunted, but it seemed to be assent, or satisfaction that the infamous General Elric was going to obey orders. He moved on.

"We can hold out," Brewster commented softly, taking another swig and holding the canteen back out to Ed. "They took much heavier losses than we did, and they're much farther from reinforcements. It's taken them twice as long according to reports; it's just that when they get them, they get more."

"Then as soon as we can get ours moved in," Ed replied, considering a moment, then taking the whiskey. If he didn't muddle his mind enough to stop thinking, he wasn't likely to sleep, and he needed it. "We can pull back the wounded. Where's the radio operator? I need to send a message back to Briggs."

"Probably over there," Brewster motioned to the fires that were springing up along the line, dotted with soldiers keeping warm; all mostly drunk.

"Never mind," Ed sighed. "They're not expecting anything at the Fort tonight anyway. I'll talk to the rest of command in the morning." He took another drink from the canteen then. It was a measure of how exhausted he was, and how far gone already, that it didn't seem to burn nearly as much this time.

It wasn't long before another soldier came over with a plate of hot food, that Ed willingly wolfed down; he was starving, and he knew he'd need something on his stomach if he didn't want to add disgustingly-hung over to his list of aches and pains in the morning. He spent a little more time in companionable discussion with Brewster, and then the Colonel who was running the front line operation and their Lt. Colonels until he finally begged off for some sleep. He was helped into a tent that had a cot and blankets. "I can't put anyone out," he tried to object.

"Forgive the insubordination, Sir," the other Colonel – Pryce Ed thought his name was, it was hard to remember at this point – "But it's my bed, and you're in no condition to be sleeping on the ground. Take the damn bed."

Ed sighed and sat down. For a hard cot in the middle of the wilderness, it felt surprisingly comfortable. He must be delusional. "Thank you, Colonel," he replied. "That was something out there today," he sighed. "The reports don't do it justice. Tomorrow, that's going to change."

"Get some sleep, Sir," Brewster chuckled, and Ed suspected the Colonel just thought he'd had too much to drink. Okay, so he _had_, but Ed was still intent on doing what he could to fix this… in the morning. As soon as he lay down, he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.

October 7th-9th, 1926

Apparently the Drachmans had _not_ been prepared to deal with anything like the defensive alchemy they were smacked with by the Fullmetal Alchemist; because they had drawn back some the next day, and did not attack. In fact, they showed not one hair or gun beyond their camp nearly a half-mile distant for a couple of days, which was good, because Ed spent the first two of that in a state of mildly feverish half-drunk recuperation. It was better than the lousy options they had for medicinal pain relievers; the Doc had something he could have given Ed, but he didn't relish the thought of being out of it and hallucinating for several days; the stuff could also be highly addictive. He'd deal with the hangover in a few days when he had to and call it a fair trade for having most of his mental faculties at work.

Ed had radioed back to Briggs the next morning as promised, and arranged a direct connection through to Mustang's office in Central. By the time he was done, arrangements had been made to pull every soldier currently on the line above Briggs back when reinforcements arrived, and replace them with twice the numbers and better provisions. Until then, they would wait. The expected arrival would be three days to mobilize everything at Briggs that needed to move; replacements to reinforce the Fort as well were coming from Central within the week.

Ed had walked stiffly out of the radio tent followed by two very awed Colonels, then crashed in the chair near the fire pit that seemed the best place to sit during the day, and tried to politely ask –instead of demanding or, really, begging – for food! The rations out there were reasonably plentiful; at least in that they were meant to fuel active soldiers; but that had never been quite enough to keep Ed full. Still, he managed, and over the three day wait, in the strange calm that had followed his rather dramatic arrival, he found himself accepted.

He made himself visit the wounded, despite the Doctor's complaints that Ed should really be in bed himself, and chatted with soldiers, played a few games of cards, took sips of drinks that were offered, and by the third evening found himself regaling almost the entire camp with some of the more harrowing and dramatic stories of his and Al's adventures, with as much drama as he could get away with. Exaggeration wasn't necessary! They laughed and roared and asked drunken, often lewd questions about the Roma girls. They liked hearing about _them_!

By the time reinforcement arrived, the pain had ebbed enough that Ed had stopped trying to dull the pain and was entirely sober, if groggy. The fever had broken on the second day, and the only downside now was the limited mobility, and the fact that he was still hungry. Oh how he looked forward to getting back to Briggs and their fully stocked kitchen! But that would wait until things were taken care of here.

The Major he had dragged back would be going back to Briggs with them, but he was alive and grateful. Ed forced himself not to think too much about what he had witnessed in battle; he knew he would have to deal with it eventually, but that was best done in the privacy of his rooms, or with his brother, not in public, or in the presence of these men. They accepted him now, and he appreciated the fact that they had bonded like soldiers, comrades; they had drunk together and mourned the losses, but he would not cry in front of them. That wasn't how this worked. Besides, he was almost ashamed to admit, after so many years dealing with his own emotional traumas, and the deaths of so many, it didn't effect him as it once had. He felt their loss keenly, and he would regret the deaths for the rest of his life, but he would not feel guilt because he couldn't save them when they were doing what they had come here to do. He knew he might die, just as they knew they might; as soldiers, that burden they shared together; that was their bond.

"General Elric," Colonel Brewster saluted, and Ed, stirred out of his reverie, sighed, not bothering to correct him when he saw who was coming up the path behind them. "Reinforcements have arrived, Sir. General El- your brother," that seemed to cause people so much confusion using the same name for them both! "Is with them, Sir. He wishes to speak with you."

Al? Well, Ed supposed he shouldn't be surprised. "Thanks, Colonel," he nodded, hesitating before pulling on his uniform jacket, despite the pain it caused in his shoulder. "Back to formality, huh?"

"Yes, Sir," Brewster actually smiled and shrugged, then ruined it by saluting properly. "And thank you."

"You're welcome," Ed nodded, then turned to face the return to reality that, in all honesty, felt almost like a refreshing breath of wind that broke the thickness of the air around them.

There was no formal meeting. The Colonels, being in charge of this part of operations, handled the arrival of the new troops. Ed stood beside them, looking official, but took no part. As soon as things were moving, he moved aside with Alphonse, who –as soon as they were out of sight, gave him a brotherly hug instead of a salute. "You're an idiot," Al shook his head, smiling ruefully as he took note of the obviously heavy bandages under Ed's clothes. "And you smell like a Munich ale-house! What the hell have you been drinking?"

"Pain-killers," Ed replied with a subtle shrug, and a wince. That shoulder was going to be a pain for a couple of weeks. "Preferable over the other alternatives."

That was all the explanation Al needed, he sighed, and nodded. "Still, it's a good thing Winry can't smell you like this," he chuckled. "You need a bath too."

Ed shook his head. In her condition, he'd probably make her nauseous on scent alone. "I'm not looking forward to explaining this one in my next letter home," he admitted, though he smiled anyway, accepting the fact he would have to.

"Oh I don't know," Al shrugged. "Hi Winry. How are you? Things are normal up here. Stopped an entire regiment, got shot at some; don't worry, the auto-mail still works."

"Stop that!" Ed snorted, though it was hard not to laugh. Alphonse was one of the only reasons, he suspected, that he was still stable given most of what they had gone through together. "Too bad this eats into my leave time," he sighed. "Ah well." It wasn't as if he would have had time to go home with only a couple of days. The travel time was too great.

"You've got two letters from Winry that arrived after you left," Al replied, pulling them out of his pocket. "I figured you wouldn't want to wait for them."

"You're a genius, Al," Ed's mood brightened again as he reached for them, almost hungrily. He had only been gone from home, was it really less than a month? It already felt like so much longer; but he craved contact with Winry so badly it hurt when he let himself think about it.

He tore them open and read them right there. The first had apparently arrived the day he left, asking how things were going, if he had managed to 'play nice and make friends' yet, and assurances that everything was fine at home. She was getting the house squared away, the last of the moving was done; she just needed to get everything out of boxes! It was very Winry and yet, somehow, surprisingly domestic. It only mentioned auto-mail twice!

The second letter contained something much more precious; a photograph. It was just a head shot, but Ed knew it was recent; the top she was wearing was one of her new ones, and they didn't have any other pictures of just her lying around their place. There was a small note on the back "Every soldier needs a picture of 'that girl back home' to show off. Come home safe, Edward. Love, Winry."

Ed only realized he was misty-eyed when he looked up and saw Alphonse giving him a sympathetic expression. Ed shook his head, and tried to hide his embarrassment. "Thanks, Al," was all he said.

"You and I are in charge of taking the wounded back to Briggs," Al commented, aware of Ed's preference for changing the subject at times like these. "Of course," he chuckled. "Given you're one of the wounded, I find that amusing."

"Me too," Ed smirked. "But I'll be glad to get out of here Al, and do our damnedest to make sure this doesn't make it to Briggs." Or past; he would never let it past if it cost him his life; as long as 'home' was safe. "What we had a few days ago wasn't a few shots, Al," he shook his head. "That was real war; and it's one of the most horrible things I've ever seen. This stops here." The finality in Ed's voice startled even him, but Alphonse nodded too.

"That's why we're here, Brother," Al replied softly. "So no one else has to see it, or live with it."

Tomorrow, they would go back to Briggs, and this would continue. Ed only hoped that, whatever happened, Mustang managed to swing an end to this with diplomats and bureaucrats before it escalated any further. This could not be allowed to continue.

If it didn't end soon, they were in for an ugly and brutal war.


End file.
